Stalker
by Schmoopie
Summary: This does not have much to do with the original Devils RejectHouse of 1000 Corpses characters BUT it is a wonderfully gorey story so hopefully you shall enjoy.


**Chapter 1: Discovery**

"Inspiration, all of which greets the mind in a dream…" – Anonymous

Beautiful hazel-tinted eyes snapped open, awakening from sleep and going slowly into focus. Smooth, pale pink lips parted in a soft groan and tired bones creaked as Dorian sat up from his bed, rubbing the back of his neck with a lazy attempt at curing the itching there. Silky dark brown hair, richly highlighted with a stunning golden copper, fell in soft waves just below a pair of strong, cream-colored shoulders; and a large, boyish hand reached over to still the wailing of the alarm clock on the bedside table.

Glancing outside, he sighed. Mist blocked the farther corners of the caudesac, and a faint spatter of rain slid down the smooth, cold surface of his window. There was no real disappointment there, though. It only meant that he could go about without so many people outside and around him.

A small smile graced the corners of his lips, and he stood, shivering a little at the chilly temperature of the morning, and then pulled a shirt out of his closet, slipping it on. A crisp knock heralded his mother at the door, and a muffled calling of his name was heard. "Dorian?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you awake?"

"Yeah."

"It's six-thirty."

"Alright." Shit. Ten minutes to get completely dressed, including a jacket for the rain otherwise his mother would keep him back until she was satisfied. Nearly falling in his exaggerated attempt to 'spring' into action, Dorian quickly went through his drawers to retrieve a pair of clean boxers and some pinstriped black pants. Stripping his lower half hurriedly, he pulled on the fresh clothing and rushed into the bathroom, running a fine-tooth comb through his thick hair, and then spraying it quickly with a shine agent his mother liked for him to use. He only washed his face with water; his skin was generally clear, free of zits and other blemishes. Rubbing on some lotion, he haphazardly brushed his straight, white (and slightly pointed) teeth, practically jumped into a pair of shoes, and caught up his backpack whilst rushing out of the door, his mother hanging after, sullen at her failure to press a sandwich upon him before he left.

The walk to school was, under normal circumstances, pretty and full of easy leisure. However, this morning Dorian found himself sprinting down the street, colors passing by quickly in a haze of beauty combined with almost panicked speed. It was a few good minutes and quite a bit of distance later when Dorian slowed and found that his phone must have been misplaced or forgotten, seeing as it wasn't in the usual place—his backpack. Swearing under his breath, he sighed, and slowed his pace to a jog. His school, Melrose HS, stood a short distance away. He cleared it just in time for the warning bell to ring, and, taking a quick glance at his schedule, headed to his first class: English.

A hush fell over the students who were already seated and in the classroom, and heads turned sharply from the ongoing lesson as Dorian opened the door, shuffled in with his eyes to the ground, and slumped into an empty seat. The teacher, whom the board announced was 'Ms. Yuma', followed him with her eyes, a small frown at her mouth. She paused, then decided to let him slide, continuing on with the lesson. Dorian breathed a small huff of relief, glancing around. The other students had lost interest in him, their attention elsewhere.

Smiling a little to himself, he reached into his backpack, pulling out one of the newer notebooks he'd gotten during school shopping, and a pencil. As an afterthought, he scribbled a title on the inner cover—'Book 1', it said—with a marker, and sat up, beginning to look around.

His first subject was located quite easily; a girl sitting up towards the front row. Narrowing his eyes in observation, Dorian wrote down a few things:

Blonde, wavy hair, maybe 120-130lbs, tanned skin tone, clique possibly 'prep', female.

Name unknown (alias is Subject 1, book 1)

Paying attention, taking notes, probably good grades.

After finishing, Dorian looked it over, deciding that for the first entry, it sufficed. Leaning back, he shut the cover of Book 1 and closed his eyes, waiting for the bell to ring. He'd barely done this when a sharp poke was felt on his shoulder. Jumping, he whirled around in his seat to find a particularly bad-breathed boy grinning back at him with yellowed teeth. He glared.

The boy offered a crueler smile when he was acknowledged, then jabbed again at Dorian with his finger, asking, "Whatcha writing there, boy?" Dorian didn't respond, only stared at him for a few moments, seeming to size him up, then merely turned back around. Not surprisingly, the other leaned forward to rasp unpleasantly into his ear; though he didn't get so far as words. When Dorian felt the others' hot breath on his neck he rounded on him and socked him soundly and squarely in the nose, causing a sharp pop and a trail of blood as the boys' nose broke. Stunned, the boy (who we may call Jared) fell out of his chair as a trickle of the red, sticky stuff oozed slowly from one nostril. Dorian huffed, pretending nothing had happened, and went back to feigning his work.

A few of the students were staring at him; more of them stared at the boy on the floor. The teacher, seemingly undisturbed, calmly dialed the health office extension and helped Jared to his feet, ignoring Dorian completely. Sending Jared out, she returned to the lesson, and Dorian, surprised, watched her apprehensively, expecting a call to the office or the arrival of campus security. She did no such thing, however; merely continued to do her job.

For the rest of the period, Dorian kept his eyes on his new subject, the girl near the front. He didn't gather much more information on her; only that her eyes were a golden brown, like the color of honey, and that the lip gloss she carried with her was something called 'Diamond Treatment'. He was content with what he had gathered, though. Information, especially on people, was very difficult to pick up unless you knew them personally. Complete strangers were never really willing to give anyone their personal savvy, much to Dorian's' disappointment. It would make his new project so much easier.

The bell rang. Scooping up his notebook and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Dorian quickly approached Subject 1's desk, putting on his favorite and most charming smile, the one he used with his mother when he wanted something. Glancing up as he muttered a 'hello', Subject 1 paused to eye him a tad suspiciously.

"Hi. Did you need something?"

Her voice was impatient, but high and clear. His smile widened.

"Ah… my name is Dorian, I just wanted to know what your name was."

He waited, face unchanging. Despite his overflow of confidence, he masked his voice to that of an insecure teenager, artfully playing the part of shy boy wants popular girl. Subject 1 stood up and looked at him for a moment, then replied passively, as if boys asked her this all the time, "Brittany Williams. Nice to meet you." She nodded curtly, without waiting for his name in turn, and headed for the door, leaving. Dorian trailed after her for a minute, then stopped, grinning openly. Flipping open Book 1, he scribbled in her name—Brittany Williams, she'd said—then closed it again, heading out to his next class.

The rest of the day was uneventful. To his delight, Dorian found that Subject 1 was in his fifth period class as well as his first period, and that she sat only a couple of seat s away, giving him more time to study her. The only difficulty with this was that her friends always caught him staring, and the three of them would cast him suspicious (or flirtatious, depending on their mood—Dorian was rather handsome) looks, forcing him to keep his head down and watch through the thick tresses of his hair. Luckily, though, he only had this problem in fifth.

On the walk home he didn't do much more than think. The plans he was forming for his subject would have to be carefully thought out, considered, revised, and perfected; otherwise everything would fall quite ruthlessly apart. As he walked, he scanned the neighborhood, mentally filing every detail, especially empty houses. He needed a place to perform the plans he was currently concocting, a place that would rouse no suspicions. Later, he would take an extended walk through town to find it.

Another matter pressing his thoughts was the fact that he had never tried anything quite like this before. Certainly he had toyed with and observed animals; for some time he'd been breeding mice in his room, noting every little trait, every simple personality. At one point they'd been suffering from a genetic disease, one that drove them crazy, taking away the conscious use of their body at a young age. The other mice, the sane ones, would not let the diseased live too long.

They would attack the inflicted and eat the brains from their skulls.

Eventually, he had destroyed his mouse population, finding it boring and too simple. Then he progressed to rats, kittens, and finally, dogs. He'd had to stop there, though. His mother had been poking her nose in his business, and if she had continued her interference she would have found out about his genocide of animals and kept a closer eye on him. His mother was a potential bane for most of his plans, so he'd patiently play good boy around her. Not that this was any trouble, since she trusted him.

His walk was over. Grunting a little as he dug into his coat, Dorian pulled his house key from his front pocket and shoved it in the lock, twisting it with a sharp click, and opened the door. Stepping inside, he shut it behind him, and smiled a little at a small Siamese cat sitting lazily on the arm of the couch. The creatures' name was Iyomi, the last of the most recent batch of genocide kittens. The poison he'd used had no effect on her, and he'd decided to keep her because of that. Her pale green eyes watched him open the refrigerator and remove a box of KFC. Reflectively, he sat at the table, munching on a cold leg of fried chicken and watching the wall, yellowish hazel eyes narrowed slightly.

His thoughts were focused on his new subject, the gorgeous Brittany. She was not as tall as him, but tall for a girl, standing at around 5'8". She was a cheerleader, judging by the uniform she had taken into class that day, and so he inferred that her agenda was busy. Book 1 out, he wrote that down. Carrying out the most difficult part of this project would be exceptionally so with her, considering the fact that her beauty and social clique almost guaranteed her a treasury of friends. This girl would most definitely be missed when she was gone; therefore he'd have to take especial measures to ensure she wasn't found and rescued.

He paused, end of the pen to his lips. Drumming his long, tapered fingers on the counter, he smiled a little and decided to nap on it. Walking into his room, Dorian let Iyomi in, closed the door, flopped down on his bed and shut his eyes to sleep.


End file.
